


Santa's daughter

by emmaofmisthaven



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Christmas, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-11 12:14:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8979238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaofmisthaven/pseuds/emmaofmisthaven
Summary: “I went to prison. I know Santa personally. I have a tattoo.”“How was prison?” Killian asks her, his whisper barely audible over the noise of the crowd.Emma downs her drink, and shrugs. “Wouldn’t know. Never been there.”





	

Emma laughs, the sound made a little more carefree than usual by alcohol, and takes another sip of her drink. The guy in front of her is, all things considered, attractive – blue eyes to die for, dimples in his cheeks, hair that can only be described as a masterpiece. _Nice_ , she thinks, _definitely nice_ , before she chastens herself for such a thought. The Ingrid in her head is grinning at her, and she gulps down her drink to forget about her mother.

“Alright, love, let’s see…” the man starts, a frown between his brows as he comes up with the next round of their game. “I have a tattoo. I am allergic to goat milk. I’ve never been to England.”

Her mouth opens in surprise, before another laugh bubbles out of her. She’s been doing that a lot tonight, and she lost track of the number of drinks she ordered, so she isn’t even sure if it is because she is drunk or – something else. Someone else.

“You’re allergic to _goat milk_?” she asks him, with perhaps too much emphasis on the words. “That’s just tragic.”

He shrugs, and smirks. “I am full of surprises. Your turn.”

She pretends to think, pout at the corner of her mouth, turning her glass between her fingers. “I went to prison. I know Santa personally. I have a tattoo.”

The man – Killian, her mind suddenly reminds her, in a slurred voice she hopes doesn’t match her own – raises an eyebrow at her before he leans forward and closer to her. Emma finds herself mirroring him, as if about to share a secret of some kind. That is when she hears her name being called from across the pub, and she turns her head to find Elsa waving at her, holding one of Ruby’s arms while Merlin has her other arm around his neck, holding most of her weight as she is two step away from passing out from drinking too much alcohol.

“How was prison?” Killian asks her, his whisper barely audible over the noise of the crowd.

Emma downs her drink, and shrugs. “Wouldn’t know. Never been there.”

He opens his mouth, frowns some more, before he opens his mouth again. Emma doesn’t let him ask the question, though, already dashing away from him and closer to her friends. She can feel his eyes on her as she reaches the door, and so she turns around and offers him a vague salute, before she follows the group outside.

“’Was cute,” Ruby slurs at her with a smirk. Emma ignores her as she takes Elsa’s place and wrap Ruby’s arm around her shoulder, helping Merlin. It doesn’t stop her friend from going on, though. “Would make a sexy Mrs Claus ‘n all.”

“Shut up, drunk bunny.”

“Satan Claus.”

 

…

 

She comes back home to a very silent North Pole, the elves having retired for the night hours before. The faint smell of hot chocolate and gingerbread still lingers in the air, though, the way it does from November to mid-January – Emma is used to it by now, but the smell alone used to make her gag. She shakes her head as she walks around the skeleton of what will soon be an electric train, then climbs the stairs leading to Santa’s personal quarters.

She opens the door to Henry’s bedroom, surprised to see not only her son fast asleep but also Jasmine sitting in the heavy armchair next to his bed. She moves her fingers slowly, even as her eyes never leave the book she is reading. Thing, golden powder falls from the palm of her hand and engulf Henry’s entire body, making Emma grin at the sight.

“You knocked him out,” she states.

Jasmine raises her head and smiles. “He just wouldn’t stop.”

She closes her hand then, and Henry only stirs in his sleep with a small snore. Both women stare at him for a moment longer then, when they are sure he will not wake up any time soon, leave the room. Ingrid’s living room is down the hall, and Emma has to walk past her office first, not even surprised to hear conversations coming from the other side of the heavy door. She raises an eyebrow in Jasmine’s direction, knowing that if Sandman is here then Aladdin is by the other side of that door.

“Still planning who gets presents from Santa and who gets them from Los Reyes Magos?” she asks.

Jasmine simply shrugs. “The yearly struggle.”

A small laugh escapes Emma’s lips as she finally reaches the living room. Every year has its same issues, and every year Henry works twice as hard to take some of the burden off Ingrid’s shoulders. She’s been training him since he was ten, going through the Naughty and Nice list with him and explaining how to deal with the elves. This year will be his first trip in the sleigh with her – only if he doesn’t die of exhaustion before.

Emma pours two glasses of spiced cider, before handing one to Jasmine. “You’re not afraid Gideon is going to wreak havoc if you’re not here to keep the kids peacefully asleep?”

“What?” Jasmine asks with a sheepish smile. “Nightmare before Christmas?”

The women stare at each other, Jasmine raising an eyebrow, before they both laugh at the terrible joke. But Emma knows not to worry about the kids – Gideon is such a terrible Boogie Man when comes the end of the year, and Jasmine is too good of a Sandman to really worry. And nightmares are healthy, or something. Definitely not Emma’s area of expertise.

Her last nightmare was before Ingrid took her in.

 

…

 

Emma’s favourite Christmas tradition is to find a lovely little town a week before the big day and to spend hours there with Elsa, just soaking in the snow and the Christmas carols and the decorations. It’s a moment just for the two of them, one they’ve been sharing since they were teenagers – well, since Emma was a teenager, Elsa hasn’t changed much through the years.

The little town is close to London this year, with adorable cottages and even a big tree on the market place, so quirky it makes Emma smile. A fresh coat of snow is on the ground and every roof, thanks to Elsa’s powers – she retired the Jack Frost costume for the day and instead wears a soft blue coat, her hair pulled into a tight braid. Emma is starting to envy her outfit, a little cold in her red leather jacket. Sometimes, she forgets that she isn’t used to the cold as much as used to all the fires in the North Pole’s fireplaces.

She buys them hot mugs of mulled wine, and Elsa buys more churros than they’ll ever be able to eat, and they walk slowly around the Christmas market, laughing and sharing secrets.

They’re admiring delicate glass adornments, reindeers and snowflakes and polar bears, when Emma gets startled at a tiny body throwing itself at her legs. She doesn’t yelp or anything, but still turns around to find a little boy, hat so low on his head and scarf so tight around his neck that she can only see his big, brown eyes. She blinks at him, as surprised as he seems to be by the collision.

He gasps, loudly, before he exclaims, “Santa?” in an even louder voice.

Emma can only reply with a nervous laugh at first, throwing Elsa a questioning glance – Elsa shrugs helplessly, just as lost for words as Emma is. So, with a sigh, she crouches so she can be at eye level with the boy. He grins at her, even if Emma can’t see his mouth – his sparkling eyes are enough, really.

“Hey, Roland,” she tells him softly – his eyes widen and she grins. You don’t get to be Santa’s daughter without learning a few tricks of your own. “I’m not Santa, but thanks for the compliment.”

“You look just like her,” the boy goes on. “Nobody believes me when I say Santa is a girl, but I saw her last year! She’s a girl and she has hair like you.”

Emma raises an eyebrow at that. Ingrid usually is careful not to be seen by the kids when she brings presents, in part to keep the magic going and in part because she likes the whole ‘old, fat man in a red suit’ thing going on. It allows her to leave the North Pole during the summer without being stopped every five minutes or so.

“Can you keep a secret?” Roland nods all too eagerly. “She will bring you the bike you asked for.”

The boy gasps again, even louder this time, then looks around frantically. That is when a man shows up, out of breath and calling the boy’s name. He looks around before his eyes find Emma, and she nearly lets a gasp of her own escape her lips when she recognises him. Because of course it would be the man from the pub, and of course he would stop in his track when he notices her, a look of surprise on his features.

“Uncle Killian! Uncle Killian!” Roland runs back to him, and then grabs his sleeve, tugging on it to get his uncle’s attention. “She said Santa is going to bring me a bike!”

“Did she now?” the man asks softly.

Emma can see the wheels working inside his brain as he frowns. She didn’t expect him to remember, not really, but she’s the weirdo who implied she knows Santa personally. Is she really that surprised that the hot guy from the pub would remember her?

She stands up slowly, ignoring the way Elsa not-so-discreetly shoves her shoulder. As if Emma needs her to recognise the man she shamelessly flirted with until Ruby decided to get drunker than Hemingway himself. So Emma shoves Elsa right back before she takes a few steps forward – Roland still stares at her like she hangs the moon, which makes Emma uncomfortable. She has no idea how Ingrid does it.

“I’ve got connections,” she shrugs.

She’s never been this careless before – Ingrid’s secret is one she never shared with anyone. Mostly because all of her friends are folklore characters too and she barely, if ever, mixes with human – the last time was with Neal, and look what happened. So Emma has no idea why she keeps doing it with Killian, even more so when he looks three seconds away from calling the cops on her. Some – kind of connection, maybe. Which is weird, and unsafe, and so unlike her on so many levels. They managed to keep the secret for two decades by having her, then Henry, home-school at the North Pole, and she doesn’t want to be the one to spill the beans. To ruin it for everyone involved.

Elsa somewhat coaxed Roland into admiring the Christmas ornaments with her, leaving Emma and Killian some privacy, and she takes another tentative step forward. Even with wariness in his eyes, it is as if Killian’s body is attuned to hers, moving closer too and following her every movement. A smile ghosts at the corner of his lips, his eyes falling on her mouth. She forces herself not to blush. Thanks the cold for her red cheeks.

“So, you and Santa,” he says, teasingly – he still doesn’t believe her, and why should he?

“We go way back,” she agrees with a nod.

“This is madness.”

She tilts her head to the side. “It’s so sad, adults who stopped believing.”

Emma knows the irony of her words – for the longest time she didn’t believe in Santa, because her Christmas was more of a nightmare than the jolly day shown in the movies. She still doesn’t know what happened to her presents – Ingrid swears she brought them every year – but something died in her when she was five. And then she was nine and running away from the first time in the middle of the night, until the cold got the better of her and Elsa saved her life. Ingrid took care of her from there, and Emma had to accept her role as Santa’s daughter. Or something.

“Should I worry?” he asks.

Emma shrugs before stepping back and closer to Elsa. She only needs one hand to her friend’s shoulder for her to understand it is time to go – before she makes a mistake and forces that man to believe again. She doesn’t know why it is so important, but it is dangerous.

 

…

 

“What’s his name?” Ingrid enters the room and lets herself fall on the couch next to Emma, feet on the coffee table. The bags under her eyes are so purple they would make Prince jealous, if he were still alive. Emma raises an eyebrow at her, and Ingrid smirks. “Elsa told me. Tall, scruffy and English?”

Emma groans, head falling back against the couch. “Elsa is too big of a gossip, seriously.”

“His name, duckling.”

She opens one eye to glare at her mother. “You’re not doing your Santa thing on him.” Ingrid stares right back, unimpressed, and Emma feels like a child all over again, small and vulnerable. “Killian. Jones, I think.”

Ingrid thinks for a moment, before the metaphorical bulb lightens up above her head. “Killian Jones, nice. Although he had a few naughty years, but his brother had just died, so…”

“He doesn’t believe anymore,” Emma finds herself saying. Not for the first time, she wonders why it is so important.

“They never do,” Ingrid explains, her hand delicate and comforting over Emma’s. “They grow up and they don’t need me anymore, or become too cynical. Either way it’s a good thing. I would never manage to deliver gifts to every adult too, children are complicated enough as it is.”

Emma smiles softly, before she closes her eyes again. Her mother smells like chocolate and wood and straw – she must have been working on the wooden horses before she decided to take a break. Emma has always loved her smell – so warm and comforting, even more so when she fell asleep on Ingrid’s shoulder, snuggling in the furs of her coat.

“You care about him,” Ingrid states more than she asks, stopping Emma from taking a nap.

She opens her eyes, but her glare is lost on the fear at the corner of her vision. “No. You know it can’t be like that anymore.”

Ingrid shifts in her seat to face Emma. Her fingers are cold when she caresses her daughter’s face, tugs a strand of hair behind her ear. “Not all men are like Neal. And believe me, this life gets lonely.”

“I’ve got you,” Emma finds herself arguing. “I’ve got Henry.”

“I know, duckling. But maybe it’s not enough anymore.”

 

…

 

She shows up at his door on Christmas Eve. Ingrid told Henry, who did some research for his mother – he found out that Killian not only is Roland’s uncle, but also his guardian since his parents died in a car accident a few years ago. That they live in one of the little cottages in the little English town. That Roland is indeed on the Nice list, and will indeed get a bike, as well as a bunch of other gifts.

Emma tries not to think too much about her son playing matchmaker, even more so the day before Christmas, when he should be sleeping and getting ready for his first grand trip. Instead, she stares at the paper he gave her, the address scribbled down in a cinnamon-scent pen.

She doesn’t know what tips the balance, but soon she finds herself in front of the little English cottage – snowflake drawn on the windows and a wreath on the door, the tree lightened up in the living room. Her stomach is in knots, and she knocks on the door before she thinks better of it and runs away.

_Not Neal_ , she tells herself. _He’s not Neal. You can do it._

Killian opens the door and all of Emma’s fears disappear in a moment, the laugh escaping her when her eyes land on the ugliest Christmas sweater she has ever seen in her life. Killian looks surprised for a second, before he looks down and flushes from ears to toes, scratching his neck with a self-deprecating smile as he looks at her from beneath his lashes. Emma’s smile falters a little at the sight, before she takes a breath and a step closer to him.

“Hi.”

“Hello, love.” He smiles. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Is it weird if I ask to come in?”

“Yes,” he deadpans.

But he also moves to the side, and Emma grins.

 

…

 

Emma soon finds herself with a little paper crown on her head and a small boy forcing her to watch Doctor Who with her, balancing a plate on her knees as she sits on the couch. Roland tells her all about the story, and how Rose is his favourite, and she throws a knowing look at Killian – Roland may be fooled by the old episodes, but she isn’t.

The boy falls asleep with his head on Emma’s lap, and she smiles when Killian takes him in his arms to put him to bed. Roland barely stirs in his sleep, so unlike Henry at his age – Jasmine often had to come to the North Pole to force him to sleep, or he would stay awake until morning.

Emma takes her time alone in the living room to stand up and move closer to the fireplace. Some pictures are framed there, most of them of a beautiful couple – alone or with a tiny Roland in their arms, at the beach, getting married, with a huge birthday cake.

“Robin was my cousin,” Killian says softly as he appears next to her, pointing at the dark-haired man on the pictures. “We never understood how Marian fell in love with him. She was too good for that wanker.”

Emma smile, even if it’s a little sad. “Poor Roland.”

“Aye. Took it way better than all of us. I didn’t want to move him away from his house, though.”

“My son is attached to his house too,” she finds herself saying without thinking, then winces.

But then again, Killian is a single parent too – it’s not like he will run away from the responsibilities when he has some of his own at home. And, as it is, he puts a hand on her hip, turning her around so she faces him.

“A son and Santa. You’re full of surprises, love.”

“You still don’t believe me.” He shrugs. “Okay, then. Come.”

And then she takes his hand, pulling him forward until he has no choice but to follow her out of the living room. She doesn’t bother with their coats, opening the front door to the cold winter night and pulling him outside with her. And then she points at the sky.

Killian sighs and rolls his shoulders, obviously playing along not to be contradictory. But then Emma sees the red star in the sky, blinking once then twice, and she focuses on Killian’s face. It takes but a few seconds before his jaw goes slack, shock written all over his features as his eyes follow the sleigh in the sky. Ingrid comes just close enough so she and Henry can wave at them with a grin, and then they are gone again in another red blink, back to delivering presents in another part of earth.

Killian keeps staring at the sky until Emma waves her hand in front of his eyes. He blinks down at her, slowly, as if still not believing what he just saw – not that Emma can blame him, of course.

“How…” he starts, at loss for words.

Emma shrugs, before she rises on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek.

“Merry Christmas,” she whispers.

 

…

 

(He kisses her for the first time the following week, when the clock strikes midnight and fireworks go off all around them. He smiles against her lips and she laughs into his mouth, the kiss messy yet wonderful. And then he kisses her again, and again, until Ruby wonders loudly if she goes confused over the date because it can’t be February 14th already.)

(Emma flips her off and goes back to kissing Killian.)


End file.
